A Finer End

“I don’t need to see them,” Fiona said baldly. “But this one … this one was different.” She turned the canvas on the easel round.

Jack felt his mouth go dry. He’d seen the paintings in magazines, and occasionally in a gallery window in Glastonbury, but he hadn’t been prepared for the power and immediacy of such an intimate exposure. “They’re …”

“Don’t you dare use the F word,” said Fiona, when he hesitated.

“F word?”

“Fairies.” She scowled. “Like Tinkerbell. Victorian. Silly, fluffy things.”

Jack shook his head. “No. They … I was going to say they frighten me. They remind me of Blake’s visions. Beautiful. And terrible.”

“Exactly.” Fiona met his eyes. “But this one—Oddly enough, in the twenty-some-odd years I’ve lived here in Glastonbury, I’ve never painted the Abbey before. So why paint it now, on this particular night?”

The creatures, some winged, some not, with their severe asexual faces, thronged round the familiar silhouette of the ruined Great Church, hands extended in supplication. Behind them, the sky was a mottled bruise reflecting the setting sun, pierced by the dark shape of the Tor.

Fiona turned back to the canvas. “And there was something else. They sang to me. I can’t describe it. It was”—she shrugged—“it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and yet the saddest. I’d give anything if I could re-create it, even in my head, but I can’t. That’s not my gift.” Her voice was filled with regret.

Slowly, Jack said, “Did Winnie ever speak to you about what we were doing?”

“The automatic writing? A bit.”

“You didn’t think it odd?”

Fiona smiled. “What’s odd to me? I’ve lived with oddness since I was a child. Is your expression of a voice from the past any more strange than my ability to see things that other people can’t?”

“I suppose not. We’ve guessed all along that Edmund communicated with me for a reason, but now we think it may have something to do with the sacred chant that was banished from the Abbey after the Conquest.” He gestured at her painting. “It seems more than coincidence that you should paint this, and hear singing, on a night that Winnie was coming unexpectedly to see you.”

“If only she’d rung me first …”

“Do you know of anything that might have been worrying her?”

Frowning, Fiona ran a finger along the edge of her canvas. “I know she was quite distressed by Andrew’s behavior. I suppose a rift was inevitable when Winnie formed a strong attachment to someone else—Andrew had taken her for granted for too many years—but I wouldn’t have expected him to go so far off the rails.”

“Do you think he would hurt her?”

“Hurt Winnie? I wouldn’t think so.” Fiona sounded less than confident. “But after the dinner party, I’d think you should watch your back.”

“Did you see or hear anything—or anyone—unusual last night?”

“I was painting. I didn’t even hear Bram come in. But … I’ve been thinking about it since.… There was something, before I found Winnie.… The woods seemed unsettled … as if there was violence lingering in the air.” She shot him a sharp glance, then turned away, gazing down into the Coombe, where the gathering clouds made flying shadows on the grass. “If someone did this to Winnie … has it occurred to you that, having failed, they might try again?”

Surely Winnie was safe as long as she was in hospital, Jack told himself, but his foot seemed to press harder on the accelerator of its own accord.

He was returning from Compton Grenville, where he’d scoured the Vicarage for things he hoped might comfort Winnie. Her favorite nightdress, her hairbrush, a small CD player, and discs of the music she loved most.

In moments he’d reached Ashwell Lane. A quick wash, a change of clothes, and he would be on his way back to Taunton.

Leaving the car in his drive, he nudged the accumulated leaves from the front doorsill with his foot and let himself in. The house felt cold, neglected, his only welcome the red light flashing on his answering machine. He switched on the kitchen lights and pressed the play button.

Faith’s voice filled the room. “Jack, I heard about Winnie. Ring me at the cafe, please. Please.” She sounded frantic, in tears.

Concerned, Jack rang the cafe, but when a harried Buddy answered, he said he’d sent Faith home after lunch, as she wasn’t feeling well.

As soon as Jack disconnected, the phone rang. He snatched it from its cradle, fearing bad news. “Jack, Nick rang me about Winifred,” Simon Fitzstephen said. “I’m so sorry. How is she?”

“No change as far as I know. I’m just on my way to hospital again now. Simon, could you do something for me? I’m worried about Faith. She left a message for me, but I can’t reach her at the farmhouse, and I haven’t time to go up there now.”

“Blast Garnet for not having a telephone,” said Simon. “But I’ll check on the girl. Don’t worry.”

Jack hesitated, torn between the desire to make a stop at the farmhouse himself and his need to get away to Taunton, then said, “Right.” He would let Simon take care of it.

Having found the cafe closed, Nick put his motorbike into first gear for the climb up the steep incline of Wellhouse Lane. If Faith wouldn’t look at Garnet’s fender, he’d do it himself, and then he’d show her what he found. He’d make her see the truth.

But to his dismay, when he reached the farmhouse the yard was already in deep shadow. Garnet’s van was parked with its nose inside the gloom of her shop; there was no way he could examine the fender without a torch.